


the goodwill you were shown

by mosttroubledbird (howlikeagod)



Category: The Order (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, brought to you by 1 part unconditional love of werewolves and 3 parts spite, could also be tagged Timeline What Timeline and Canon What Canon, i mean. it is hamish., no dubcon but some alcohol consumption if that squicks you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24835168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlikeagod/pseuds/mosttroubledbird
Summary: Randall has very nice teeth. When they’re small and human, and when they’re big and sharp and tearing people’s throats out. All nice.Hamish shakes himself. The big teeth are Greybeard’s. He’s certainly not titillated by any of the Knights themselves. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about Randall more generally.Hamish shares a drink with Randall, insults his fashion choices, and plans a trip to CVS.
Relationships: Randall Carpio/Hamish Duke
Comments: 15
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Their Gods Do Not Have Surgeons" by the Mountain Goats

“Ham Solo—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—what’s the stupidest question a student has asked you in discussion?”

Randall leans back against the bar. He has a single curl out of place, bouncing over his forehead every time he moves like a loose spring in a broken watch.

“Do you mean this week?” Hamish asks before taking a sip of his drink. He runs the tip of his tongue over the inside ridge of his teeth—more bitters next time, he thinks.

“Sure,” says Randall. “This week, this month, ever. Take your pick.” The rim of his glass turns the ridge of his nose into a surreal painting. Like watercolor. Like light through stained glass. His eyebrows quirk up and wrinkle the skin of his brow.

Hamish tilts his head, considering.

“Not exactly a question,” he muses, “but a fight nearly broke out on Tuesday. I thought I was going to have to wolf out to stop them from strangling each other.” The corner of his mouth twitches at the memory.

“Over _what?_ Did another freshman devil’s advocate start demanding to know how we _really_ know that we know anything before you can finish saying ‘Plato’?” His face scrunches up for a second and his fingers twitch in quick succession. Hamish is more certain than he is of his own name that Randall is taking a quick mental tally of the number of times he managed to jam the word _know_ into a single sentence.

It’s reassuring to see he’s sober enough to review his own syntax.

“You’ll never stop eighteen-year-olds from picking fights with an epistemologist.” Hamish sighs, then shakes his head. “Not this time, no. It took me a minute to figure out what they were fighting about. As it happens, they didn’t know either. It was a misunderstanding after one of them got Angela Davis mixed up with Alice Walker.”

“How’d you make it all the way to _The Color Purple_?” Randall chuckles. “Better question—did Lilith sense them from halfway across campus and kick the door down?”

“To answer your first question: post-structuralism, Foucault, prison, Davis,” Hamish follows the thought process, pointing a finger at invisible bullet points in the air, then shrugs, “Black female writers starting with A?”

“Undergrads have approximate knowledge of many things,” Randall nods sagely.

“You would know,” Hamish shoots back. He polishes off his drink.

Randall scoffs in mock offense.

“I have… _proximate_ knowledge of _several_ things.”

“Mhm,” Hamish hums. “To answer your second question, no. You’re thinking of the time someone in her lit seminar confused Christina Rosetti and—”

“—Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” Randall finishes for him. “Right.” He sucks in a breath between his teeth, locked in a grimace. Randall has very nice teeth. When they’re small and human, and when they’re big and sharp and tearing people’s throats out. All nice.

Hamish shakes himself. The big teeth are Greybeard’s. He’s certainly not titillated by any of the Knights themselves. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about Randall more generally.

Ah. Time to turn in, then, if he’s feeling fuzzy enough to be that honest with himself.

“I’ll think of a better anecdote for you tomorrow,” Hamish promises as he heaves himself out of the armchair.

“It’s still early,” Randall objects. Hamish brushes him off and reaches past his sturdy shoulder to set his empty glass on the bar. He should do dishes tonight. It’s not like him to leave a messy bartop.

It’s not like Randall to reach out and stop him from leaving. One hoodie-clad arm wraps around his shoulders like a warm and affectionate boa constrictor.

“Okay,” Hamish laughs, hands up in mock surrender. Randall’s arm doesn’t move. He tugs on the back of Hamish’s neck until their foreheads bump together. “Okay,” he repeats.

Randall hems and haws awkwardly, clearly unsure what to do with Hamish now he’s got him.

“I think you want to stay.”

“Is that so?” Hamish shifts cautiously, careful not to break Randall’s hold on him. He settles one hand on the bar and the other on Randall’s bicep. That’s as neutral a place as any.

“If—” Randall’s eyes are huge and dark. Hamish can’t see anything beyond them but a collection of anatomical details turned uncanny by perspective: the slope of his cheekbones, the curve of his ear, the prow line of his bottom lip. “No, not _if_ anything. Yeah. I do. And I think you think so too.”

“Alright,” Hamish agrees easily. Too easily. He’s naturally suspicious of answers that feel so easy.

“That’s not a yes, dude,” Randall huffs. Hamish feels the rush of air against his mouth.

“Do you need one? You’ve got me pretty well captured.” Hamish pushes back against the arm around him teasingly.

He means it as a joke, but Randall drops his arm like he’s been scalded. The soft fabric and firm muscle under Hamish’s hand fall away. Randall’s brows come down over his dark eyes. He’s still pressed up against the bar, so there’s nowhere for him to go, but he leans back to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Yeah,” Randall says. “I do need one, Hamish.”

“You’ll have to be more specific about what I’m agreeing to.”

“You really don’t know?” Randall cocks his head.

Hamish sighs and closes his eyes. He leans forward of his own volition, now, and presses his forehead back to Randall’s. It’s a common gesture between all of them—you don’t inherit the skins of an ancient band of warriors and see each other naked on a thrice-weekly basis without developing a casual physical intimacy.

Randall cups Hamish’s jaw tenderly.

“There is a certain responsibility that comes with my position as leader,” Hamish says slowly. He doesn’t stop himself from pressing into Randall’s hand. “So yes, I know. _And_ I need you to say it.”

“Kiss me?”

Hamish opens his eyes. Randall’s stare is intense, a warm darkness like the sweet edge of falling asleep or the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it blackout of a transformation.

“That’s all?” Hamish asks wryly.

“Let’s take it one step at a time.” Randall nods at his own idea. 

“That’s very responsible of you,” Hamish breathes.

“Yeah, well, you can’t hog all the brains—”

Hamish has his lips on Randall’s practically before he’s finished the sentence. His mouth is warm and soft and eager—Hamish didn’t expect it to be any different. Those are all Randall, through-and-through.

“You,” Randall mutters between the parting and meeting of their mouths, “ _gotta_ get better at using your words.”

“I use my words,” Hamish retorts, “all the time. Using words is my job. Maybe I’m sick of words.” Randall’s tongue slips behind Hamish’s teeth and runs along the ridge of them. Hamish goes faintly weak at the knees.

“One of your jobs,” Randall corrects quietly as his mouth makes the journey over Hamish’s cheek, down his jaw, and finally latches on the skin of his neck.

“Yeah,” Hamish pants in agreement. “My other job is keeping you on a tight leash.”

“That a threat or a promise?” Randall laughs. His breath drifts coolly over the damp skin of Hamish’s neck where Randall is surely leaving love-bites that vanish as soon as he pulls away.

Hamish grunts a half-laugh in acknowledgement and finally takes his hands off the bar. He wraps his arms around Randall to clutch at the loose fabric of his hoodie. Randall moves the hand on Hamish’s jaw to the back of his head and runs the other down his back—up and down, soothingly.

There is a joke about _bedside manner_ that doesn’t quite coalesce in Hamish’s mind. He’ll get to it later.

“What else?” Hamish tilts his head back to give Randall more room to work with and directs his question to the ceiling.

Lips leave his neck and strong arms unwind from Hamish’s torso. He feels a needy huff of discontent leave his throat before he can stop it. By the time he looks down, Randall has his hoodie halfway off.

“Okay?” Randall checks from where his face hides somewhere in the depths of his clothes. The t-shirt under his hoodie rucks up, exposing his midriff and most of his chest. Hamish has seen all that and more an uncountable number of times.

Context makes all the difference.

“More than,” Hamish confirms before he fists a hand in the dangling hood and yanks it off of Randall himself. Randall shakes his head, hair frizzed and cheeks flushed and grinning.

He grabs Hamish by the face and mashes their mouths together again. Hamish gets his hands on the warm skin of Randall’s hips. He pulls him closer and feels the weight and pressure of him through the joggers he wears in defiance of all taste.

Randall’s emboldened hands leave Hamish’s head and travel, express delivery, directly to his ass. Hamish gasps around the tongue in his mouth—two, technically, though one is typically there to start with.

“Oh,” he says as Randall pulls back to stare into his face. His huge eyes are wider than the moon. Hamish sees Greybeard prowling behind them. He wonders if Randall can see Tundra, if that’s why he’s looking at Hamish like he wants to peel him apart.

“Touch me?” Randall suggests breathlessly. “You can say no to whatever, I don’t have to be the only one calling the— _Ah._ ”

Hamish’s hand is down his pants before he’s finished the thought. He is abruptly of two minds about the joggers, not that he’d ever admit it to Randall. And certainly not now, with Randall’s eyes squeezed shut and his soft, warm mouth fallen open. Hamish squeezes his hand as he twists it around the shaft of Randall’s cock.

A sound halfway between a moan and a growl comes from Randall. Hamish feels more than hears an answering one rumble deep in his throat. Without the high collar of his hoodie in the way, all the skin of Randall’s neck is a temptation Hamish has no intention of abstaining from. Not that his track record is excellent anyway, in the abstinence department.

Between the tongue and teeth on his neck and the hand on his cock, Randall has tilted his head back and his hips forward so enthusiastically that he’s practically bent backwards over the bartop. He seems to have no objection to the position, but Hamish is suddenly hit with the concern that Lilith could be home any time.

She would have no real problem with what they’re doing, but she’d claw both their eyes out and then her own if she were to walk in on them with no warning.

“We should,” Hamish begins, before interrupting himself to run his tongue up behind Randall’s ear again, “move upstairs, I think.”

“Ugh,” Randall grunts intelligently.

“Come on,” Hamish laughs. He pulls back, straightens up, and, almost as an afterthought, removes his hand from Randall’s pants.

“Sure. Whatever you say.” Randall pushes himself up with his elbows. Then, in one smooth, swooping movement, grabs Hamish and hoists him up bridal style.

“Hey!”

“Up we go.” Randall carries him easily to the stairs.

“I’m glad you’re wearing the joggers,” Hamish comments as Randall mounts the staircase. Randall looks down at him quizzically.

“You hate the joggers.”

“If you were wearing real pants, don’t tell me you wouldn’t have your dick hanging out right now.”

“Being a werewolf is a dicks-out occasion,” Randall retorts. “Besides, I’d have it _in_ somewhere else soon enough.” He grins, lopsided, at his own joke. The expression shows off his canines.

Hamish is utterly humiliated by the quiet, high little sound that wriggles its way out of him. It couldn’t be described as a whine, though he’s hard-pressed to think of a better word at the moment.

“Hey,” Randall stops on the landing. “I’m kidding. It was a joke. I don’t have to be kidding, but whatever you’re down for, or ready for, or into.”

“Randall,” Hamish says with deep, mature seriousness, “let’s not have this conversation in the middle of the stairs.”

“Good point. Your room or mine?”

“When was the last time you changed your sheets?”

“Yours it is.”

Randall practically leaps up the last half dozen steps and kicks open Hamish’s bedroom door. Hamish feels arms tense around him.

“Randall, don’t—”

It’s far, far too late. Randall throws Hamish across the room like a sack of so many potatoes. His aim is unerring. Hamish lands on the mattress with an unholy creak of the wooden frame, bounces once, and exhales in irritation.

“Score!” Randall throws his hands in the air.

“Don’t count on it,” he huffs. Randall raises an eyebrow, and Hamish breaks.

He’s still laughing when Randall crawls toward him across the mattress. They meet again in a long kiss, arms coming up around each other like a new, ancient instinct. Legs tangle together, Hamish’s shirt comes unbuttoned, hands grab greedily at familiar and unfamiliar skin.

Context is everything, Hamish thinks again.

“What _do_ you want?” Randall asks with his face buried in Hamish’s neck and his hands down the back of his unbuttoned pants.

“Well,” Hamish sits back on Randall’s thighs and smirks down at him, “I’d be happy to blow you, but with this refined palate of mine…”

“I eat better than anybody we know!”

“You eat a lot of kale.” Hamish wrinkles his nose.

“You can’t taste kale in jizz.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t.”

Randall scoffs. He leans up and plants kisses across Hamish’s chest.

“Was gonna wear a condom anyway,” he mumbles against his skin. “Safer sex, dude.”

“Where do you keep yours?” Hamish runs a fond hand through Randall’s thick hair. “I’ll go grab one.”

Randall freezes.

“Um.”

“Really?”

“I wasn’t expecting this!” He whips his head up and glares at Hamish defensively.

“Right, you seduced me on a whim.”

“Seduction implies it took effort,” Randall points out. Hamish plants a hand in the middle of his face and shoves him backwards.

“We could run out to CVS.” Hamish reaches across the bed for his discarded shirt. Randall stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s not a bad idea, but there’s one problem.”

“Oh?”

Randall grins. There’s nothing of Greybeard in it, but it doesn’t fail to be wolfish nonetheless. He lunges, twists, and suddenly Hamish finds himself flat on his back with Randall braced over him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I _really_ want to make you come.”

“Oh.” Hamish releases a shaky breath through a smile he can’t hold back. “There’s nothing stopping you from doing that after CVS,” he says, just to push. Just to see.

“Nothing stopping me from doing it _again_ ,” Randall corrects. He shuffles down Hamish’s body, hooks fingers into the waistband of his slacks and boxers, and yanks the whole mess down. He looks up at Hamish and slowly lowers his head until his cheek rests below his belly button. Hamish feels a steady hand caress the inside of his thigh.

“Excellent point,” Hamish chokes out. He digs his fingers into Randall’s hair.

Randall closes his eyes gently. He nuzzles into Hamish’s stomach and his hand follows its predestined path, up, up, to stroke where he’s been fairly aching since Randall’s teeth made contact with his neck.

Hamish lets his head fall back into the pillows. Randall’s hand is strong and calloused and sure on his cock. His hair is soft and easy to pull. His gasps when Hamish does are nothing but encouraging.

“How—How is this?” Randall sucks on the skin of Hamish’s hip as his grip twists.

Hamish grunts between his teeth. He releases his grip on the comforter with the hand not in Randall’s hair, hooks it behind Randall’s arm, and hauls him up until they’re face-to-face.

Randall _oof_ s gently as he flops on top of Hamish. The pressure of his hips against Hamish’s sends him gasping for breath.

“Take the joggers off,” Hamish demands against Randall’s mouth.

“Yes, sir,” he says, sarcastic but eager.

“Don’t call me that in bed.”

“Yeah? Too vanilla for it?” Randall topples over as his pants get caught on one leg. Hamish takes the opportunity to pull his own underpants all the way off, seeing as they’d been tangled around his calves for the better part of all of this.

“Not necessarily,” Hamish says noncommittally. Randall’s eyes go wide and delighted, but before he can demand elaboration Hamish has his tongue down his throat.

He rolls on top of Randall and grinds tightly against him. Having Randall down between his legs, breath warm and heavy across the sensitive skin of his stomach, was a delightful place he could float in forever, but the novelty of kissing him takes precedence. He feels gluttonous with the desire to kiss Randall, with the indulgence of doing it over and over.

“Hamish,” Randall pants. He groans, whines somewhere high in his sinuses, mouth slack under Hamish’s like he can’t focus enough to control it. “Hamish,” he repeats again until his name becomes one long, voiceless fricative.

“Let’s pick up where we left off,” Hamish suggests as he wraps a hand around Randall and lays lips to his throat.

“Yeah, good plan, great, you’re so smart, that feels good, _fuck._ Hamish!”

“Did you need something?” He smiles against Randall’s skin. Of course he’s chatty. It’s _Randall._

“You,” Randall groans, “just you.”

“I have news you’ll be delighted to hear,” Hamish teases.

“Haha— _Aah,_ ” Randall half-laughs until his voice rises into a long, pleasured sigh. “I’m—”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” Hamish kisses Randall’s slack mouth. He shakes and shivers against him. His hands clench on Hamish’s ass—part of Hamish quietly mourns that it won’t bruise.

Randall comes with a sound that burns in Hamish’s ears. He’s a magpie of a person, is Hamish Duke, which is a poetic way of saying he’s a possessive son of a bitch, and the sound of Randall losing all composure so beautifully deserves pride of place in any collection.

“God.” Randall peels his arms from around Hamish and collapses. His eyes are slightly out of focus, as if staring through the ceiling. “Fuck.”

“Your eloquence astounds,” Hamish says softly. He leans down and presses lips to Randall’s cheeks, over his brow, along his temples.

“I’m an astounding guy,” he says. He blinks his big, dark eyes several times until he seems to reenter the atmosphere. “Your turn?”

“Please,” Hamish says graciously. He gestures widely in the general direction of his dick. The sight of Randall flushed, gilded with sweat in a way Hamish has seldom seen outside of a hunt, has his brain slowly but inexorably leaking out of his head.

Randall smiles, and the bottom drops out of Hamish’s stomach.

His hand is back in place, stroking out a rhythm that makes Hamish’s toes curl. He doesn’t kiss him again, doesn’t mouth at his throat or his chest. Instead, Randall hovers over him and watches Hamish fall apart. There are his eyes again—no Greybeard, just Randall. Big and kind and warm and—

 _“Fuck,”_ Hamish says as he comes all over Randall’s hand, makes a real mess of it and of himself.

“What was that about eloquence?” Randall leans in, turning and tilting his head so one ear is aimed pointedly at Hamish. “No? Nothing to say this time?”

“Fuck,” Hamish repeats, then adds, “you.”

“After CVS.” Randall says it like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> both Undergrad Confusions are actual mistakes I made in discussion when I was doing my B.A., though fortunately neither got me into a fistfight. names are hard! anyway, read Angela Davis.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go to CVS.

Randall likes CVS.

Sure, it’s a weird thing to like. Sue him. There’s something sanitary about drug stores. Well-lit, white walls, the smell of cleaning products familiar but less overwhelming than a hospital. He’s a fan of convenience, too, as a rule. He appreciates the ability to pick up a prescription, grab a pack of toilet paper, and then walk five feet to give into the temptation to buy three-for-one family size bags of Doritos.

He hasn’t been in this particular CVS since he picked up the round of antibiotics he was on a little over a year ago for a mild ear infection that cleared itself up immediately when he joined the Knights. He’s got a week’s worth of them still under his bed, somewhere.

More than likely, Randall will never have to take medication again for as long as he lives. However much time that ends up being— _Long the road,_ et cetera.

“Here.” Hamish smacks him in the chest with a shopping basket.

“I don’t need one.” Randall tries to hand it back. Hamish walks away without looking back at him.

“You always say that,” he replies over his shoulder, “and then you end up trying, _and failing,_ to carry armfuls of stuff you don’t need to buy.”

“We’re literally here for one thing.” Randall gives up on handing off the basket and hooks it over his arm in defeat.

“We need paper towels.” Hamish puts his hands in his pockets, peers down an aisle, and turns on the heel of one fuck-off expensive shoe to saunter around the corner.

“ _We need paper towels,”_ Randall repeats mockingly under his breath. He takes off in the opposite direction. Divide and conquer seems to be Hamish’s approach to this vital CVS run.

If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect Hamish was only fucking him as an elaborate move in his game of six-dimensional chess to trick Randall into actually getting some grocery shopping done. Joke’s on him—Randall is buying condoms and absolutely nothing else. All those middle school teachers who wrote _Difficulty staying on task_ on his report cards can bite him.

Also, Hamish is fucking him because he’s sexy and an unmitigated delight. Obviously.

“Oh, shit!” Randall cheers. “They have fruit snacks on sale.”

He pops up on his tip-toes to peek over the top of the shelves. Hamish’s sandy hair bobs along the aisle two rows down. Randall sighs, twists his mouth contemplatively, and turns away from the fruit snacks and toward the little sign that reads _Family Planning._

Hamish meets him there as Randall strokes his chin in front of the array of choices presented to him.

“What do you think?” he asks. He glances down as something clatters into the basket that doesn’t sound like paper towels. It’s a bottle of silicone-based lube. Randall raises his eyebrows questioningly at Hamish.

“I want to be prepared for the eventuality,” Hamish says without looking at him. He jerks his chin toward the shelves. “Up to you. You’re the expert.”

“Excuse me?” Randall laughs.

“I meant—sexual health.” Hamish shifts awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to imply anything else.”

“Okay, noted. Thanks for not calling me a slut in the middle of CVS.” Randall tilts far enough to gently ram his shoulder into Hamish’s affectionately. Hamish grins softly. His teeth are white and perfect inside his crooked mouth. He grabs a package off the shelf and makes for the checkout.

“Oh, hey,” Hamish says, stopping in the middle of the aisle. “Look. They have fruit snacks on sale.”

He looks over at Randall, whose grin feels like it eats up his whole face.

In unison, Hamish reaches out with his left hand as Randall reaches out with his right. They grab a pair of boxes and toss them into the basket. Nothing but necessities on this trip, as promised.

The air smells like a thunderstorm on the way back to the Den. Muffled in the distance, a cheer rises from the bastion of another noble and ancient brotherhood—probably someone doing a keg stand.

“Do you think,” Randall says around a mouthful of fruit snacks, “the Knights ship us?”

“Do I _what?”_ Hamish laughs. He reaches over, quick as a bite to the carotid, and steals a gummy from Randall’s pack.

“Dude.” Randall’s mouth falls open in affront. “Not the orange ones.”

Hamish shrugs as he chews his ill-gotten gains.

“Unbelievable.” Randall shakes his head.

“Forget the fruit snacks. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Obviously champions have been macking on each other since time immemorial,” Randall explains. “There’s no way you’re the first to get into the pants of another member of our gender-neutral collective—twice, I might add. Now who’s the sluttiest person at CVS?”

“Randall.” Hamish has a complicated look on his face. It’s somewhere between amusement and warning, a familiar instruction of _Don’t go too far_ coupled with a strain of vulnerability he doesn’t show often.

“Sorry. I just mean, do you think Tundra is in there somewhere,” he waves his open palm in tight circles around Hamish’s face, “like, howling _Get it, boy!_ Awoo-ooooo!”

He throws his head back at the peak of the howl and cups the hand with the plastic bag dangling from it around his mouth.

“Each has their strength,” Hamish, scholar of their house, says wisely. “One the bravest, another, the most cunning. Turns out Tundra is the horniest. Who knew.”

Randall cackles and swerves across the sidewalk to slam Hamish with a full-body nudge. Hamish slings an arm around Randall’s shoulders and pulls him into a loose headlock. They stumble like that down the street, a four-legged beast howling at the moon.

“Hey.” Randall tilts his head against Hamish’s collarbone.

“Yeah?” The tip of his nose pokes into Randall’s hair. The smell of rain swells in the humid night.

“I’m glad you’re here. With me. There’s nobody I’d rather share these fruit snacks with.”

Hamish snorts against his scalp.

“You say that now,” he teases, and extends his free hand to pluck the pack of gummies right from Randall’s grasp.

“I’m serious.” Randall digs his heels in and slows them both to a stop. Hamish stands stock still, chest pressed against the back of Randall’s shoulder, breathing heavier than it should be for the length of the walk.

Randall straightens up and turns around. Hamish’s slack arm falls from his shoulders. He finds them nose-to-nose.

“I mean it, man,” Randall repeats. He closes his eyes, leans in half an inch, and draws the tip of his nose up the bridge of Hamish’s.

Randall hears the mostly-empty pack of fruit snacks hit the pavement. He doesn’t have time to lament it before Hamish’s fingers are tangled in the hair at the back of his neck and Hamish’s mouth is on his, almost desperately. He throws his arms around Hamish’s waist. The shopping bag definitely smacks him in the ass.

They stand there and kiss on the street in full view of three different frat houses. Randall hopes to God somebody says some shit. He feels like a superhero a lot of the time, that’s why he’s here at all, but right now he feels _invincible._

“Go suck face in your fucking dorm!” shouts a voice from across the street. Someone else whistles lewdly. Randall sticks out an arm in their general direction and extends a specific finger.

“They’ve got a point,” Hamish murmurs against his lips.

“Yeah, but do you really want to reward that kind of behavior?” Randall pecks him on the mouth again.

“What I _don’t_ want to do is have sex in the middle of a sidewalk.”

“Where’s your adventurous spirit?”

“In a locker in the basement,” he says dryly. “Now let’s go.”

Hamish shoos Randall to start walking again. As they go, their shoulders jostle together, elbows too, and Hamish’s knuckles brush against the back of Randall’s hand.

“Wait!” Randall stops. He turns around, jogs a few feet up the sidewalk and crouches down to pick up the fruit snack packet Hamish dropped. “Don’t litter. What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head disbelievingly.

“You’re a hero,” Hamish assures him with a hearty pat on the back. As he lowers his arm, his hand catches around Randall’s.

“I know.” Randall slides his fingers between Hamish’s and holds on tight.

Randall’d had a fantasy in mind about kissing Hamish before they even made it inside, stumbling through the door, pushing each other against walls and pulling shirts off and all the dramatic trappings of some sexy CW show about to fade to black.

It doesn’t go like that.

For starters, Lilith is home. Randall sees the light on in the living room through the front window. Point B, he’s carrying a plastic bag with, among other things, two entire rolls of paper towel, which would probably get in the way if he were to throw himself upon Hamish and beg to be ravished. And thirdly, Hamish has to rattle the key and curse at the lock before the damn thing swings open because nobody has bothered with the upkeep of this place either since werewolves started squatting here or it became student housing, whichever came first. Not an auspicious start to getting laid.

Not that Randall doesn’t intend to get laid. But maybe not right this second.

“We bought paper towels,” is the first thing Hamish says when he and Randall pass through the living room.

“Great,” Lilith replies without looking up from her laptop. “Wait for me to finish this outline before you fuck each other’s brains out, okay?”

“What?” Hamish turns around with a gobsmacked look on his face that reminds Randall of a muppet.

“Told you we should have showered.” Randall swats Hamish in the chest with the back of his free hand.

“Yeah,” Lilith confirms. “It stinks in here. Now shut the hell up, I’m trying to figure out if I want to resurrect Jonathan Swift just to kill him again.”

“I’m pretty sure as Knights we’re supposed to be against necromancy,” Hamish points out. Lilith flips him off good-naturedly.

“Come on, let’s stow away our spoils.” Randall hands the bag off to Hamish, who huffs and heads into the kitchen. Randall stares theatrically at his ass.

Lilith raises one open palm. Randall smacks it as he passes by.

“I suppose that’s easier than explaining,” Hamish says. He tucks the boxes of fruit snacks snugly in the snack cabinet, side-by-side. The tips of his ears are a windswept pink despite the fact that it’s seventy degrees outside.

Randall’s mouth drops open in glee. He steps closer to get a closer look at Hamish’s handsome, grumpy face.

“You’re embarrassed!”

Hamish stares at him.

“Of course I’m not embarrassed,” he lies. “We’re consenting adults. She’s our friend. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He goes back to puttering around the kitchen, even though there’s literally just a roll of paper towel left to put on its upright holder thingy.

“Alright, Shame-ish,” Randall scoffs. Hamish glances at him flatly.

“Not your best work.”

“Ouch.” Randall places a hand over his heart as if struck.

He walks up behind Hamish and presses his chest against his back. Gently, he reaches around and takes the paper towel roll from him. Hamish’s hands grasp at empty air. Randall sets the roll on the counter.

“What would you have said?” Hamish asks, too casually. “If we had to explain it to her?”

Randall noses into the gap where Hamish’s shirt collar meets his neck.

“She knows how long I’ve been pining, man,” he says.

“Pine—” Hamish whirls around. Randall has to take a step back to avoid getting clocked in the chin by his shoulder blade. “Pining?”

“I thought you knew,” Randall laughs.

“I knew there was an… attraction,” Hamish says slowly. He’s blinking like he just woke up from a long nap or a long hunt.

“Yeah, I think you’re super hot,” Randall agrees, “and I want to be your equally hot, successful doctor boyfriend. I guess you’d be a doctor too,” he adds thoughtfully. “Just not that kind of doctor.”

“That’s.” Hamish stops as if _That’s_ is a complete sentence. Well, he’d probably argue that it’s technically a grammatically complete one, but by a definition of language as existing for the purpose of communicating ideas—

Goddamn, Randall spends too much time with Hamish and Lilith.

“I get that it’s a lot.” Randall puts his hands up, palms out, like Hamish is a spooked horse. “But I figure, why not?”

“You realize there’s every chance neither of us will live long enough to be any kind of doctor. Long the road—”

“—short the life. I know. Hey.” Randall grasps him by the biceps and presses their foreheads together. “I know. Which is why I’m all in, get it?”

“All in,” Hamish repeats flatly like a rhetorical question. Randall is going to have to think long and hard about whether he thinks his TA voice is hot.

“All in. You made me swear an oath to give my life to the cause. Now you’re jumpy about changing your Facebook status? Come on.”

“I haven’t—” Hamish clears his throat, “had to. In a while.”

Randall sighs. Hamish’s eyes flutter closed.

“If that’s why, I get it.” He presses closer until the bridges of their noses are nestled side-by-side. “Just tell me and I’ll back off. But look at it this way—you’ve got practice! And I don’t know about you, but I’m in too deep with us, _all_ of us, you _and_ Lilith and Jack, to think it wouldn’t hurt to lose anyone.”

Hamish swallows. Randall hears the sound, feels the movement in the miniscule shift in body heat against his own throat.

“Alright,” he says.

“That’s not a yes, dude,” Randall replies for the second time tonight.

Hamish pulls back. His eyes open, startlingly blue, and his mouth tips into one of those lopsided smiles.

“Yes.”

“Fuck yeah,” Randall mumbles against Hamish’s mouth as they’re kissing a split second later. “Finally gonna have a trophy wife.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hamish bites him playfully on the neck.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me your philosophy degree is going to rake in the big bucks,” Randall scoffs.

“No, no,” Hamish laughs into his skin. “Obviously I’m your trophy _husband.”_

“Shit,” Randall breathes as a hand steals under his shirt. “You got me there.” He has a thumb creeping under the line of Hamish’s waistband when—

“I _told_ you idiots to wait until I finished my outline!”

“Sorry!” Randall and Hamish call in unison. Hamish nuzzles Randall’s face with a fondly embarrassed smile.

“It’s whatever. I’m almost done. I’ll go break into Jack’s room and finish there.” Randall hears Lilith shut her laptop. “Have fun, and it better not smell like your goddamn _musk_ in here when I get back.”

“Hey,” Randall loops his arms around Hamish as the front door closes behind Lilith, “when should we get Jack moved in?”

“He has a single now. He’s living the high life. And don’t you technically live in the same building?”

“Yeah.” Randall shrugs. “But I only have to deal with shit three days a week, and no matter what Lilith says, this place smells _way_ better.”

“Mhm,” Hamish hums. His hands stray further up Randall’s back. “Stop talking about Jack and Lilith.”

“Can do,” Randall breathes.

“Okay.” Randall tosses the CVS bag onto Hamish’s bed and finishes stripping down to his underwear. They both actually take their socks off this time too, like adults. “What are we thinking?”

“I blow you, you finger me?” Hamish suggests.

Randall snorts.

“ _Prepared for the eventuality_?”

“I know what I like,” Hamish shrugs.

“I admire that in a man.” Randall takes Hamish’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. His mouth is soft, just like his skin. He uses some bougie aftershave that tickles Randall’s nose.

He shuffles backward and pulls Hamish down onto the bed. His hands roam over Randall’s chest possessively, a greedy eagerness that warms him to the tips of his toes. Hamish has nice hands. Long fingers. The strong grip of someone taught from an early age what kind of handshake will make a man guzzling liters of toxic masculinity for breakfast respect him despite his taste in vests.

Randall grabs a handful of his ass and shoves the other hand down the front of Hamish’s boxers. He bites at the slope between his neck and shoulder. Hamish sighs so quietly, anyone without werewolf superpower ears might have missed it.

Lucky he’s with Randall.

“You’re first this time,” Randall informs him.

“Wh—Ah!” Hamish yelps in surprise when Randall flips him onto his back without letting his hands stray from their ideal positions. Hair flops into his face over a frankly adorable pout. “You could have asked me to roll over.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Randall waggles his eyebrows. He leans down and kisses Hamish, long and deep, one hand kneading his ass and the other stroking over his cock until he’s rewarded with a high, desperate sound falling from Hamish’s mouth and filling his own.

“Okay,” Hamish pants, “okay, up, up, off.”

Randall pulls back until he’s kneeling upright above Hamish. Hamish wiggles out of his boxers and twists around to reach for the CVS bag. The way his skin pulls over his ribs as he does so makes Randall’s mouth water. He feels like an old horn-dog cartoon, tongue lolling out and head magically transforming into a wolf’s for the purpose of whistling.

He resists the urge to do it for real. He deserves a medal for his restraint.

“We really should have opened this first,” Hamish says. He twists the cap off the lube and makes a frustrated face as he tries to peel off the little plastic cover inside.

“Here, let me—”

“No, I’ve got it—”

“Dude, just give me the—”

“Ha!” Hamish flicks the lubey circle into Randall’s face. It clips the tip of his nose and flutters to the bed.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Randall asks.

“Uh huh.” Hamish nods with a stupid little grin on his face. Randall nods along sarcastically.

“Alright, come here.” Randall collapses onto Hamish. He bites at his mouth, slips his tongue between his teeth and runs a hand up the soft skin of his inner thigh. Hamish pulls his legs up and spreads them with a contented sigh.

Randall takes the opportunity to run his tongue down Hamish’s neck and across his chest. The hair on his chest is thin and downy and gets in Randall’s mouth a little bit, but at the moment—weird, can’t imagine why—he doesn’t give a shit. Hamish has finally given up his pretense of quietude and is letting loose happy little hums that have Randall’s toes curling and the back of his neck prickling like he’s been sunburned.

“Randall,” Hamish insists, breathless and a little bratty.

Lube. Right. Cool.

He grabs the bottle, gets his fingers slick, and gets to work. Hamish throws his head back at the breach, the pressure. He curls a hand around the back of Randall’s neck. His fingers grasp through Randall’s curls, scritching against his scalp.

“Yeah?” Randall sucks a trail of hickies into Hamish’s neck like a magic trick: now you see them, now you don’t.

“Yeah,” Hamish replies. He repeats the affirmation again, clenching eagerly around Randall’s fingers.

“Someone’s hungry,” Randall laughs. Hamish’s face scrunches up and he makes a less-than-pleased sound.

“Don’t be crude,” Hamish complains.

“You’re seriously gonna be a prude with my fingers in your ass?”

“I’m not being a prude,” he says. “If I’m irked by something when I’m wearing pants, I’m not going to find it _sexy_ any other time.”

“Fine,” Randall sighs. “Only _clean_ dirty talk in this house.” He rocks his wrist, pushing a little deeper, and Hamish lets out a much happier sound.

“That’s all I ask.”

“What’s the Latin name for _cock_?” Randall asks casually, teasing the fingers of his free hand over the nameless object in question.

“Wouldn’t you know better than me?” Hamish cants his hips up into the loose curl of Randall’s fingers. “I didn’t take Greek and Latin Roots in Medical Ter—Terminology,” he stutters at a particularly ingenious twitch inside him.

“Yeah, _medical terminology._ You want me to use doctor-speak in bed?” Randall raises his eyebrows. Hamish looks thoughtful for a second. That won’t do—Randall grips his cock and gives him a hard few strokes.

“Nn—We’ll talk about it later,” Hamish says in a rush, squeezing his eyes shut. Randall laughs, but he has to concede the point.

Teasing Hamish has its perks, but. Giving him what he _wants_ is a hell of a rush, a rush to the head and the pants and also the heart. Greybeard rumbles happily, protectively, indulgently. Randall knows the feeling.

One thing Randall wouldn’t have put money on? Hamish gets _loud_ when he’s not in charge. His mouth is wide open, his long gasps and moans cast upward like a spell. Randall feels his own face heat up like his brain is a pot boiling over at the sight of Hamish on his back, one foot kicking at the bedspread, utterly losing his composure.

He finds a rhythm with his hands that gets him an honest-to-god yelp. Randall grins, and Hamish is too far gone to even glare at him.

 _“Ah,_ Randall, shit—” he grits his teeth, which look sharper than usual for a split second before he comes.

Randall kisses over Hamish’s face as he comes down. The skin of his cheeks burns under Randall’s lips. He trails them over his forehead, his eyebrows, down the bridge of his nose.

“Good?” Randall checks in.

“More than,” Hamish sighs. He grabs his own discarded underpants, looks mildly grossed out as he wipes down his stomach, and throws them to the floor in front of his closet.

Randall feels something that could accurately be called astonishment. Hamish’s room is like a hotel, stocked minifridge and all, clean and homey in a furniture catalog kind of way. Randall is honored to be worth making a mess for, small as it may be.

Hamish throws an arm around Randall’s shoulders and tugs until they’re both lying on their sides, facing each other. Hamish presses a kiss to his mouth.

Randall strokes a hand over Hamish’s bicep and kisses back slowly. His hand slides to the smooth plane of his back. He walks his clean fingers down the valley of his spine.

Hamish nuzzles closer until his nose is tucked into the space between Randall’s chin and neck.

“Sit up,” Hamish says. He starts to pull back, then wraps his hands around Randall’s shoulders and brings him with.

“Oh, great. Yes.” Randall is very on board with this. Hamish smiles at him, lopsided, teeth milk-white as the moon on a clear night. “Wait!”

He scrambles back, digs around in the plastic bag, and grabs the box of condoms.

“Should have opened that too,” Hamish points out. Randall sticks his tongue out at him. Hamish rolls his eyes, then puts a gentle hand on Randall’s chest to push him back far enough to pull his boxers off.

Hamish seems more content to take his time with Randall than have Randall take time with him. Letting him come first was _such_ a mistake—one Randall knows he’ll make again, and gladly. With the condom on, Randall watches, wide-eyed, as Hamish hovers over his dick with a gleam in his eye. He’s disappointed in himself for wasting the _hungry_ quip so soon, but then again, it would be a hell of a lot more earnest right now.

“No joke this time?” Hamish asks as if reading Randall’s mind.

“You said you didn’t like it,” Randall replies breathlessly.

Hamish tilts his head.

“I did say that.” He smiles again, softer, then opens his mouth and closes it around Randall’s cock.

“ _Fuck,_ Hamish.” He strokes fingers frantically through his hair.

Hamish pulls off with a slick sound.

“That’s not the hand you had inside me, is it?”

“It’s not,” Randall vows. He holds up both hands innocently, one slightly tacky with a thin layer of lube. “I did wipe it off on your comforter a little, though.”

“I need to do laundry anyway,” Hamish mutters before he descends on Randall’s cock again with the ferocity and precision of the apex predator whose skin he wears.

He clutches the back of Hamish’s head, grips fingers tight into his soft hair, and curses his way to his second climax of the evening. Hamish’s mouth is wicked and quick, warm, as soft and welcoming as it is to kiss.

Randall is only disappointed he can’t kiss him like this, too.

He collapses backward when he gets close, on the tail end of a convulsion that would have been embarrassing in front of pretty much anyone else. Hamish was there the time Randall woke up naked, covered in deer blood, and late for calc. He was there when April from his floor broke his heart last year. He was there the time he drank too much gin and got so sick he—That’s not a good anecdote to think about with his cock in someone’s mouth, Randall scolds himself.

Point being, Hamish has seen a lot of stupid shit from Randall. He’s put up with all of it. A little shrieking and a shimmy while he gets sucked off is nothing.

When Randall’s done, emptied out, nothing more to give, he lifts his head and is greeted by the sight of Hamish with his head pillowed on Randall’s thigh. Randall reaches out and strokes the side of his face. Hamish pushes into the caress and looks up at him.

Then, he gives him the smuggest shit-eating grin Randall has ever seen.

“That good, huh?” Hamish gloats.

“Shut the fuck _up.”_ Randall runs his hand up his own face and into his hair. He exhales a long breath and looks down again.

Hamish waggles his eyebrows.

“Dammit,” Randall curses as he bursts into a laugh that punches straight out of his chest. Hamish crawls up his body to curl on top of him. He knocks his forehead against Randall’s.

“Thanks,” Hamish says, quiet and earnest. Randall lifts his arms to wrap them around Hamish.

“Thank _you._ ” Randall gives him a quick peck that turns into another, another, a deeper kiss that lasts a lifetime.

“Okay,” Hamish groans as he pulls away. “I love this, I really do, but I am so very sticky.”

“Same.” Randall wiggles the fingers of his offending hand.

“Race you to the shower,” Hamish says, quick as a thought, then leaps to his feet and sprints right out of the room.

“Wha—Dude!” Randall sits up and throws his hands in the air.

Hamish’s footsteps slow to a stop, then reverse back to the bedroom. He pokes his head in the door.

“I meant we’d share, obviously,” he says.

“Oh.” Randall bites back a grin and feigns shyness. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m—Hey!”

Hamish, in his infinite folly, takes the bait, pausing and opening the door to give a genuine answer to Randall’s seeming hesitancy. Randall uses the gap in his defenses to leap to his feet, grip the top of the doorframe, and swing himself over Hamish’s shoulder. Hamish ducks reflexively, allowing him easy passage.

“Try to keep up, Us-Hame Bolt!” Randall laughs as he hits the hallway floor and takes off for the bathroom.

“You’re a toddler!” Hamish shouts after him.

“A toddler who’s winning!” Randall braces himself in the doorway to the bathroom. “It was your idea.”

“I’ll get you next time,” Hamish promises. He shoves Randall through, and the door clicks shut behind them.

“What’s—” Jack drops his backpack in the foyer and wrinkles his nose. “Do you smell that?”

“Jesus _Christ,”_ Lilith shouts up the stairs.

Over the sound of running water, she hears the muffled voices of Randall and Hamish call down a not-nearly-apologetic-enough, “Sorry!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do want you all to know that the title for this in my gdocs was "technically not furry porn"


End file.
